


Dear Malcolm

by AlexKrenin



Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-21
Updated: 2014-12-07
Packaged: 2018-02-26 13:08:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2653130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlexKrenin/pseuds/AlexKrenin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As Malcolm's restless spinning and scheming, spiraling into violence, threaten his health and sanity, Julius desperately tries to calm him down. </p><p>How far is he ready to go?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Spin War 212

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jexxer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jexxer/gifts).



> This began as something I've been planning for quite some time.  
> I'm sorry, I still cannot choose between Malc/Jamie or Malc/Julius. I just love both. 
> 
> Then, Jexxer came in and voiced my very idea in a prompt, like the pychic she is.  
> So, it became a gift for that awesome Tumblr pal. It's yours, Jexx, enjoy it.

 

 

 

 

 

How did I end up like this? By what kind of incongruous thread of circumstances do I find myself in that cab, saturday night, half past eight, a pair of nasty bruises blackening on my back, and utterly powerless, facing the Thunderstorm sitting next to me on the backseat.

 

A thunderstorm of pale skin and sharp bones, silver hair, steel blue eyes.

Furious Warlord Malcolm Tucker.

 

 

 

 

Where did it begin?

 

Maybe last monday.

The first dawn of Spin War Two Hundred and twelve. The first of six endless, excruciating days Malcolm and I spent alone, him with his phone and laptop, sharp words and threatening fists, me with worried glances and whispered pleas.

 

 

 

 

On monday afternoon he had the Secretary of State for Defence resign over this sordid affair of weapon design contract. Malcolm made him sign the death warrant of his career with his own bloodstained fingerprint. The reaction speech he wrote for the PM was merciless. I know that part for sure, I have seen the draft.

  
On monday evening, the lukewarm body had been dragged out and thrown in the mud, and the inevitable “who's next” issue emerged.

From this very moment and for five fearful days, Malcolm had pushed his spinning to an art form. He repeatedly punched, drilled, and sledgehammered his word in the press, the staff, the focus groups. He was restless.

 

There were two men in line for the job, Collins, and Kelly. Malcolm was being very clear about his support for Kelly, along with the very explicit suggestion that everyone, no exception, should do the same, or face the consequences.

 

 

I've seen him on the phone, in every corridor and every cubicle of Government. I've heard his voice from the corners of Number Ten to the shadows of Richmond Terrace. I've read his memos, spread simultaneously by half a dozen sources, drowning minds and flooding desks.  
All of it, stuffed to saturation with  the most wretched, cruel and _-it hurts me to say_ \- disgusting swearing he is capable of, and trust my word, that does mean a lot. After three days there was not a soul with any kind of influence in the politics of this Kingdom who hadn't been frightened to death, threatened of mutilation, rape, or criminal fire. He was  remarkably meticulous.

Truth be told, he was also _insufferable._

 

 

 

I tried and tried to calm him down, make him reconsider his language, but I'm afraid I've never stood a chance at this game.

 

Since the very first day, when after nearly three years basically consisting of a ten thousand praises, countless invitations for lunch, diner or even theatre, and an immeasurable amount of my trademark clumsy one-sided flirting, he finally smiled _that_ way for me.

Since that glorious evening, when after three successful press conferences and a government reshuffling that could have been – and most likely was - written by his own hand, he finished his fifth glass of wine and slowly closed his fingers around the lapel of my tuxedo jacket.

 

I immediately spoke about the finest restaurant I could think of, maybe my Club near Kensington Palace, or a concert at the Coliseum. He smiled, then, _that_ way. That delicate, dreamy smile no one ever sees, and that I didn't even dare to hope for myself.

-”Your place will do” he whispered, playing with the St Michael and St George badge on my jacket.

 

This was October the 9th, 1998. A rainy friday night.

 

Ever since then. All my battles against Malcolm are not lost all the time, but those that take place at work die young and shamefully.

 

This last week was no exception.

All my pleas for moderation have been waved away, every time, all the time. At first with a smile and a word of banter. Then as those horrid days unfolded, and rage slowly devoured his heart until he became the vicious snake he sometimes has to be, he stopped smiling, and started to shout.

 

 

Until that last time, that one time too much, where he hissed a burning string of raw insults, and pushed me back against a heavy door so hard the old wood creaked louder than my spine. I haven't seen the end of those bruises yet.

 

 

I stopped trying. Because if I insisted once more, I wouln't see him again for a month, and I couldn't allow that. He needed, you see, at least one soul at his side, just to make sure he ate and drank properly. Just keep him alive through the war. And I fear he had just scared away anyone else but me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The terrifying part of the story is that, being shoved away like that, I barely could speak to him at all. And yet, I had so much to tell. Thing is, from my fluid, wandering position in government, there isn't much I can't see. I walk a lot. I talk a lot. I also listen.

 

I always listen.

 

And I very soon noticed his nuclear-war spinning was beginning to backfire rapidly. He had been so systematically awful with a whole lot of people that, out of hurt, spite, or death wish, small clusters of revolution had formed.

Whispering, at first. Then talking out loud. Finally, near thursday lunchtime, _writing_.

 

 

Headlines praising the other man, Collins, began to spread like wildfire. And, to my shock and horror, Malcolm didn't seem to realize, keeping on banging his Kelly lines on every head he could find. Oh, dear Malcolm looked so tired some nights. But he refused to come at my house the whole week long, saying it was too far, his flat was closer to the office. He refused – _sometimes harshly_ \- my invitations to restaurants, even the ones he actually likes, and left most of the food I brought him untouched. I don't even think he slept at all on the night between tuesday and wednesday.

 

You'd think he'd waste away and break down, but this is Malcolm Tucker. As an answer to pain and exhaustion, he gave the world an image of sheer fury and venom. By thursday evening, he was finishing his fourth day with no more than ten hours of sleep and three decent meals. I was quite sure he should have passed out. And yet, I saw him marching on, his eyes splitting hearts in two, his words burning corpses.

 

But, alas, he was still blind to the backfiring. Reassured by his unawareness, the Cluster of Revolution became the Tsunami of Revenge. 

 

  
Small fish did laugh behind his back. He didn't see. His memos circulated, glued with disgusting pictures of him being taken by a horse. He didn't see.

His plan was failing badly. He didn't see.

 

 

 

I tried,oh how I tried to warn him, but he smiled, or shouted, or hissed or fought, but never cared to listen.

I was devastated.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

By this morning of course, Collins won the job. Every voice was speaking for him, except a few unconvincing whispers, their loyalty tainted by their obvious terror of Malcolm.

 

 

Peasants laughed and minstrels sang. His office door remained closed all day.

 

I barely dared to open that door around six pm, expecting God knows what state of ruin he'd be in, somewhere for sure between dazed fury and fatal wound. But he had to eat something, at least drink anything else than coffee and that over-sugary soda that can't be good. Someone had to take care, you see.

 

And after all those years spent fighting hard to deserve him, I bloody well _wanted_ this someone to keep on being me. He is mine, after all, he did smile for me, years ago, and still does, sometimes, late at night. My dear Malcolm.

 

 

I feared devastation, I found him ecstatic, eyes afire with violence, pacing in circles around his desk, ending a phone call in disgustingly fake joyful tones, something like "don't thank me pal, it's in my job description" and "yes of course, see you tomorrow for the customer welcome pack".

 

 _Oh it had to happen and this is the time_ , I thought, t _his is the day where Malcolm Tucker looses his mind._

 

 

I stood there, frozen in fear and despair, a fresh fruit salad and a hot vanilla chocolate held on my documents holder as on a plate, until he hung up, looked at me, reading anguish on my face, and stopped pacing.

 

He didn't smile, he didn't walk to me. He was white as a sheet, and he must have lost three pounds in five days, as if he had any pound to loose. The lines under his eyes had gone from red to dark purple. Everything about his thin frame screamed exhaustion, and yet, the look in his eyes was terrifying. It was anger, it was frenzy, bloodshed and war.

 

He didn't speak to calm me down. He spoke because my terror seemed to annoy him more than anything.

 

He nodded towards his phone in his hand and said:

  
-"It was Collins. The guy loves me. He's sitting at his desk like a lovely meat puppet waiting for my lines like the words of fucking Jehovah. "

 

 

Collins.

For Heaven's sake. _Collins._

 

 

 

-"That was your plan” I breathed. “That has been your plan all along.”

 

He didn't clap, or laugh or triumph.

He grinned.

 

And that was the most dreadful sight I'd ever seen.

 

He grinned like an animal, like some wolves can do. Oh, I measured, at this moment, how far from me he was. How I had lost him, somewhere between now and last monday, and I despised myself for giving up trying, leaving the love of my life alone on a moonlit night, and letting him turn into that wolf again.

 

 

-”You see, sweetheart” he snarled grimly, “I have to let the treacherous cunts believe they can fuck with me, from time to time. If I don't they'll stop trying. If they stop trying, well, how can I spot the treacherous cunts?”

 

 

 

-”You've noticed.” I let out. “You've seen it all. You know who spun for Collins behind your back.”

 

 

 

-”What do you take me for, Julius, a fucking schoolboy?” he spat, walking to his desk to lay a hand on a thick folder full of what looked like press releases and printed memos.

 

-”Everything's there.” he said.

 

Then, his lascivious eyes sliding on me from feet to head, freezing me with liquid nitrogen, he whispered, unctuous:

 

-”And what is not there, I'm sure I'll find in your own briefcase, won't I?”

 

 

 

I looked down at my own hands, holding food, and indeed, this folder of my own, twice as thick as his, containing every piece of writing the Cluster of Revolution ever produced, from day one to last night. I very much feared I was blushing.  
I gathered that folder when I thought I would warn him of his scheme's freefall. As I guessed, then, what he intended to do with it, the urge to throw it out the window had me clenching my teeth. But, truth be told, he _would_ eventually get this information, by ripping more guts if necessary. I might as well cut one or two murder scenes from the upcoming movie.

 

 

Shaking away my disgust, I stomped to him to drop it all, food and folder, on his desk.

 

 

-”Very well played, Machiavelli” I sneered, covering with sarcasm my hurt and sheer terror.  “I suppose you shall find in there all the names you need for Step Two of your Spin War, that is very likely to involve slaughter, rape and acid burn of each and every one of those names, along with their two next of kin. ”

 

He grinned once more, his petrifying, bloodthirsty stare fixed on my folder.

 

 

 

 

 

I stepped back to have a look at him.

 

I'll never get used to this, I think. This monster he has to turn into, to win the impossible battles he's challenged with. He has to become a King and his whole army, with a phone and a laptop. He has to steel himself so thick he can walk on dead bodies and smile the smile of angels.

This is so far from who he really is. I am quite sure every fish in the Government Ocean is persuaded of the contrary, but trust me, I know. It drains him. Cripples his heart. He marches on, sixth day of war, and he doesn't even realize he's exhausted.

 

 

 _If nothing is done,_ I thought, _he'll collapse on this very floor on monday morning and it'll need a month under feeding tubes to get him standing again._

 

 

I needed to get him out of here.

 

 

 

 

How I did manage, exactly, I still cannot explain. I don't think I totally succeeded, to be frank. He is following me home, but the fury in his eyes hasn't stepped back one bit. He's looking out the car's window, his fingertips tapping broken rhythms on my folder, upon the leather seat. I have no idea how to get him to calm down, and it's sending icy shivers down my spine.

 

 

 

I tried bargaining, letting him take my folder with him, but demanding a promise to stay at my place for the end of the weekend. He shrugged, mumbling something like “whatever, Baldy”. I tried not to wince at the name. He knows I hate it.

 

 

I tried bribing, speaking about my living room, that fireplace he likes so much, Beethoven, and a nice supper for two. I mentioned the bathtub, and all the time we have until monday morning. He snorted, rolled eyes and, grabbing his coat, told me to shut up and call a cab.

 

 

At the end, I fear I also tried begging, trying to touch his hand as the car moved, whispering a poorly knitted sentence about his need to get some rest before he passes out. “Please, _Dear Malcolm_ ” I sighed, “let me take care of you”. He didn't let me in.

 

 

He hissed and shook my hand away.

 

 

 

 

So, here I remain, sitting on his side, brokenhearted. This is why. This is how.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

If nothing is done, he'll be half-dead in two days. If he isn't half-dead, he'll start crushing bodies and ruining lives at 8 am sharp, and won't stop until the whole office is a workplace graveyard. Because, you see, there are dozens of names in this folder. Some of them only wrote, or clapped along, in the faint hope for a payback for Malcolm's abuse, I don't think they really meant to betray him. Just to stick out their tongue at his back for once.

 

The founder cluster is maybe a group of five who had the real purpose of ruining his plan. Maybe, he could limit his slaughter to those ones, and have mercy on the rest.

 

 

Obviously the monster sitting next to me won't even consider it. He'd kill them all until his shoes are soaked in blood.

 

But Malcolm, _my dear Malcolm_ would.

I know he would, trust me, I've seen how sweet he can be.

  
  
  
I just need to kill that wolf, and bring Malcolm back to me. Win the battle I never stood a chance in.

 

 

 

From this moving car, to monday morning.

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Bargain, Bribe, Beg.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The rest of the journey to my house is spent in heavy silence,  time and space measured in the  tapping of his fingers.

 

 

I am quite relieved no one of my house staff is there on weekends. All they've seen so far is the grim and distant state he's in, sometimes, when I drag him back at my place after a week that hasn't turned the way he wanted.

 

Well, tonight it's not.

 

 

This week turned out _exactly_ how he wanted, and this is far worse.

 

Mostly because this isn't over yet. His strategy of deceit has worked, but the slaughter is still pending. Malcolm is suspended, still consumed by unquenched fury, for 30 more hours. His beloved bloodshed, the impending Saint-Brice's day of Number Ten, is delayed by a plague called _S_ _unday_.

 

Sundays are a repeated source of anguish for Malcolm, because they leave him with silent desks and empty corridors, without a soul to crush under his slender fingertips. This can hurl him into alarming states of frustrated anger sometimes, walking in circles and biting his lips, if he is not kindly reminded that there is more to life than the endless war he's waging.

 

 

Usually, this is where I come in.

 

 

 

 

 

 

This is something I am good at. Showing Malcolm the beauties of the world.

I don't think it is the reason why he finally accepted my restless advances, for truly, that reason is still a mystery to me. I never dared to ask.

 

 

 

 

 

But, you see, dear Malcolm has an exceptional mind. He is indeed capable of the darkest, cruelest schemes any man can elaborate, and it would seem to most people he only takes pleasure in manipulation and treachery, but at the deepest core of all those intricate lies and venomous threats, he is first of all a pure, and complete genius.

  
On days of miracles, when I can tear him away from the smell of blood on the battlefield, his hunger for fine arts, music, history and refined delicacies of food or scenery is without limits.  
I still cannot believe the inhuman amount of information, science and culture he can assimilate, compact, filter and master. I know life in the low neighbourhoods of Glashow didn't give him the opportunity for high school education, but, Heavens, he would have burned my old Cambridge to the ground. With my four degrees and two doctorates, the days I feel humbled by Malcolm's mind are still legion.

 

 

 

 

My providing food for his body and mind has basically been the heart of our relationship sofar.

From that rainy friday night, four years ago, to this lonely cab sliding up my street, this has been us.

 

The trade of his smiles and whispers, for my fine arts and life support.

 

Most of the time, I follow his footsteps, in the shadows of his coat, watching, and searching. Noticing what no one wants, or cares to notice. A trembling of his hands, the beginning of exhaustion or hypoglycaemia. A faint wheezing of his breath, the typical frown of a headache. Providing what needs to be, leaving food on his desk, aspirin in his coat. Making a few phone calls to ease his plans, arranging meetings and writing his name in the PM's agenda.

 

The rest of the time, he comes to me, closing the door of my office behind him. He walks closer, stopping a few feet away, speaking in short, furious sentences about press, phone calls and the general disgrace of the average human intelligence. He speaks, voice strained with rage and absolute lassitude, until I get up and touch him. He falls silent, then, and gives me that specific look, bright and raw _,_ so I know it's my turn to talk. I've always been very much aware of what the sound of my voice can do to him. I touch his neck, or his waist, and breathe words in his ear, may it be wisdom or sweet nothings, it doesn't matter. I speak, and I don't even need to kiss him. He knows. At some point, his fingers touches me back, somewhere on my face or hands, and he leaves my office, quieter. Almost peaceful.

 

No further words are needed.

 

And if I have been good enough at what I do for him at work, he lets me drive him away from the office, to any place of luxury he can roll eyes at. He scorns and sneers, cutting the upper class into bits with sharp sarcasm knife, but throwing amazed looks around, avidly memorizing every detail, every colour, fabric and material.

 

I pride myself on some late saturday nights, where I could almost hold his hand, devouring the sight of him smiling and pointing, looking oh, so young then, his staying very close to me all night long as the clearest of gratitudes. He truly is mine, then, dear Malcolm, leaving my hand on his hip, my lips close to his cheek, and I feel like the emperor of all things.

 

 

 

 

Well, what good will they make, all those things I am good at, tonight, against the Warlord I'm bringing home?

What can music and sweet nothings do to tame a wolf?

 

 

The utter anguish of it all is squeezing my heart so tight I find it hard to breathe.

 

 

The car stops and he gets out without a word, preceding me to my door while I pay the cab driver. The moment we're in, he walks straight to the living room, lays the folder on the coffee table, sits on the couch and starts shuffling through the papers, clenched jaws, merciless eyes. He doesn't look at me, not once.

 

Oh, Malcolm. I lost you on that moonlit night. Must be the season of the witch.

 

He's scanning the folder at an amazing speed, memorizing names, dates and sentences, and I told you already how much data that man can bear in mind. His Red List is getting longer by the minute, and oh, Heavens, what should I do?

 

Be rational, Julius. Keep calm. What has already worked before?

 

 

Bargaining, bribing.

Begging.

 

 

 

_Fine._

 

 

 

 

Bargaining it shall be.

 

 

-”You have in that folder everything that has been _written_ ” I let out as quietly as I can, “but you can't know who _spoke_ first. Who let it all begin.”

 

He finally looks at me, a vicious frown wrinkling his brow. This insane, violent stare almost has me breaking down in pieces but I hold my ground. The Nicholsons of Arnage have not walked through the centuries as cowards.

 

-”I do know who did”. I state slowly.

 

He gets up, elegant and quick, the coat he didn't even bother to shrug off swirling around him, and hisses at my face, crushing my personal space, not exactly in the way I'd like him to.

-”Spit it out.”

 

-”Well, Malcolm, maybe if you would follow me in the kitchen, we could prepare a light supper for two, and discuss about it over a nice meal?”

 

His eyes narrow, and of course, he knows what I'm attempting to do. He gets one inch closer. Being exactly of the same height as me, he can look at me in the eyes quite directly, what is, by now, bordering traumatic.

 

-”Don't play games with me, Baldy” he growls. “I said, spit it out.”

 

Again, I try hard not to flinch. I force myself to remember he does like my hairless head, he said it once or twice, on late saturday nights of miracles, passing his fingertips through it and enjoying the intense shivers it gave me.

He just uses that name to hurt, because he knows it does, and just because he can.

 

-”You haven't eaten anything all day.” I fight back. “Truth be told, you have barely eaten a thing all week. Have supper with me, and I'll give you five names.”

 

A short breath through his nose, and a low growl. His fists clench and unclench a few times. I am terrified, but not entirely devoid of skills at hiding it. Some voice at the back of my head is muttering prayers, and I cannot know why.

 

Until he roars something foul and obscene, and pushes me hard against the bookshelf. My copy of A Farewell to Arms; first edition, falls at my feet with a heavy sound barely covering the one of my heartbreak. Malcolm goes back to the folder, throwing over his shoulder something about me going to fuck myself.

 

 

My heart squeezed to dust, and tears in my throat, I get down to the kitchen to prepare, alone, his favourite kind of sandwiches. Turkey fillet, cheddar and balsamic vinegar. I also make some tea, fearing more coffee wouldn't help my case.

The sight of a fresh plate of butter biscuits, prepared by my dear housemaid Mathilda, along with a note wishing the both of us a good weekend, has me smiling fondly through a cloud of anguish.

 

 

I pick up half a dozen and add them on my tray.

 

 

I silently go back upstairs to lay down the tray on the coffee table next to him, as Vercingetorix laid down his arms at Mighty Caesar's feet.

 

He doesn't spare a glance for it.

 

 

_Bargaining is in ruins._

 

Bribing, then.

 

 

I push the food plate one inch closer, and serve him tea. That's his favourite also, Russian Earl Grey from french house Mariage, the smell itself being a sin.

 

I get up, not stopping there, and go to the high shelf where I carefully hid the best sound system I could afford. Which is, of course, the best that can be found. I choose Beethoven's Eroica. Again, his favourite, the one that granted me one of the most delightful hours of my life, when I brought him back here after the concert, only to witness him strip to nothing and lay down on this very couch he's sitting in now, beckoning me, whispering something about him being very, very grateful.

 

 

I walk to the hearth, finally, and tackle the task of starting a fire. Unneeded, since the central heating is already working, but he likes the sight of it. So do I, by the way. I suspect this fireplace is the main reason why most of the best hours Malcolm gave me happened in that living room, rather than in my bedroom, where the fireplace has been sealed in the 50's and only remains there for decoration.

 

I take a few steps back to admire my work.

 

The house is indeed giving all she's got. Dimmed Art Nouveau lamps, sending glorious golden light up to the family's collection of Baroque paintings, all of them genuine. The Vermeer above the fireplace has always fascinated dear Malcolm, and he never seemed to grow tired of hearing me talking about it.

Ancient wood and carved walls seem to be praised by firelight and music. At the centre of it all, my masterpiece, the most magnificent work of art I ever could find, my killer, my lover.

 

Malcolm Tucker.

 

 

The house is beautiful at this hour of the night. You may find it hard to believe, but it actually is the smallest of the Nicholson's properties. It's the “old city house”; and most of my family despises it. We have four other manors, three times as wide, all in the countryside, each of them surrounded by estates of fields and forests as far as the eyes can see.

All of my kin left London years ago, leaving me alone in the “old city ouse”, with that small garden and dusty paintings. Truth is, my father meant it as a punishment. He didn't take very well the knowledge of his youngest son never intending to give him any kind of descendant sooner or later, ensnared as he was by the charms of other gentlemen. I may be wealthy, mostly because I am clever and made rewarding stock exchange moves, but truly, I am the disinherited son. I am destitute, marooned here and forced to take a job to maintain the house, and the restricted staff of three who liked me enough to refuse to leave me alone.

 

I am the black swan, isn't that hilarious. Everyone at the office considers me as the paragon of Old England. Well, folks, Old England is in a 14th century castle near Coventry and hates my guts for being gay.

 

For loving him.

 

  
Sighing, I come closer to him, still absorbed in the studying of that damned heap of papers, and let my fingers graze his worried temple. He flinches and moves away.

 

-”Fuck off. I'm busy”.

 

I retract my hand, ignoring the stabbing pain in my chest. I circle around the couch and sit next to him. I can see from where I am the muscles of his neck tense and knotted like the branches of an old tree. He must be sore. I warm my hands by rubbing them together for a while, and gently lay them there, delicately rubbing the soft skin. Oh, Lord, he's in such a state. Surprisingly he doesn't push me away. His manic stare keeps scanning the pages, but he doesn't move further.

 

He's gorgeous. Terrifying and gorgeous. Fire paints his pale skin in vibrant tones Vermeer himself would have chosen. The master would have loved the stern curves of his hollow cheeks, the noble lines of his brow. The elegant moves of his hands, and the fascinating length of his eyelids.

 

Anger ages him a little, wrinkling his skin in lines of fury. Exhaustion does outrages to his body, whitening his lips, reddening his eyes. The ice of frozen lakes, in his wild eyes, is the fabric of nightmares, but still. He is magnificent.

 

 

Oh, how I love him, my soul sold to the shadow of his hands for one smile and a gentle word.

 

 

Trapped in my own dream I haven't noticed his growing irritation. And, once more, my adoration for him is my downfall.

 

He slaps the folder close and grabs my left arm in an iron grip.

 

-”What exactly in the words 'fuck off' is beyond your grasp, Baldy?” he roars, his eyes burning holes in whatever remains of my heart.

 

-”Malcolm...”

 

 

He gets up, still grabbing me, and lifts me up to my feet. He is mad with rage and ruin, nothing I have done so far changed a thing, and the crude reality of how helpless I am hits me like a bullet in the head. Only blood will appease the wolf's hunger. Only blood.

 

And why not mine?

 

-”Malcolm, please...

 

Oh.

 

_So I've come to begging._

 

 

-”What?” he hisses, grabbing my other arm and slowly pushing me back, against the wall. “Does it hurt, Baldy? Did you seriously think you could slip me in your pocket with fancy classics and fucking biscuits?”

 

My back hits a wall, again, and the previous bruises haven't healed yet. Something creaks, my bones or the sideboard nearby, I don't know.

 

-”Mark my words, you glittering waste of posh genome, you are fucking useless to me.”

 

One more rough shake against that wall and he lets go of me, turning his back at me and laying his coat on the couch.

 

-”Now fuck off. I'm staying here for the night. Got work to do”.

 

No, that cannot be. Not one more night like this, he'll pass out, he'll be sick. It's been two days with nothing left in his veins to burn into energy.

 

Without thinking I take three steps towards him and grab his wrist.

 

-”Malcolm, don't...

 

 

The last thing I see is the raging storm is his eyes. His fist hits my jaw in the middle of Beethoven's third movement and my world goes white, red, and finally, **dark.**

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, pals, don't worry, I love to leave you on a note of despair, but my fics never really end like this. Stay tuned, happier songs incoming!


	3. Missa Solemnis

 

 

 

When I come back to my senses, Beethoven is over. Silence has fallen, and I am sitting awkwardly on the floor where I fell, my back to a high bookshelf, and the taste of blood everywhere in my mouth. While I patiently wait for the pain to let me breathe and for my eyes to wake up, I quickly check with my tongue how many teeth are missing. I immediately realise teeth are not the issue. My harshly bitten tongue is. More blood in my mouth, oh, _well done._

 

I painfully stand up, leaning on the shelf at the risk of seeing more books fall. My head is killing me, but I don't think I have any broken bones. He's always been so strong, however thin. I pity the fool who would judge him by his build.

 

 

I sense movement and I blink twice to see clearly. Malcolm is there, standing impassive, poised and elegant near the couch three yards away, looking at me with unconcerned eyes.

 

Cold, so _cold_.

 

That heartache again. Will this moonlit night ever end?

 

 

I cough a bit, and I fear I just spat some blood on my shirt. He doesn't react, steel eyes fixed upon me as if I was an insect struggling through the day, and Lord, that's it, I've had enough. Enough of that agony in my chest, enough of that stranger in my house, enough of that beast staring at me.

 

 

I am bruised and desperate, miserable and tired. I have done everything. I have laid down my love, my time, myself. I have endured, I have accepted. I have done everything, from begging to bleeding, just to call Malcolm back to me. Everything.

 

And my everything hasn't been enough.

 

He turns away, shrugging, and walks back to the folder. But, to my dazed surprise, before he has a chance to sit back, a stern, angry voice that I do not know, that cannot be mine, cracks loudly in thick silence.

 

-” **Malcolm**.”

 

He freezes, his back to me, suspending his move. My heart skips a beat. Could it be? He doesn't sneer, he doesn't roar. He doesn't even retort.

 

-”Malcolm, look at me now.”

 

Agonizingly slow, he turns around, and for the first time in this nightmare of a week, a hint of confusion peeks through the fury in his eyes. Somewhat puzzled, he inspects me from head to feet and back. At the end, he lingers on my face, a slightly more complex mixture of emotions slowly emerging from the cold, cold snow of his features.

 

Could it be?

 

That strange voice goes on, harsh and imperious. Really, that cannot be mine.

 

-”I'd like a glass of brandy, if you'd be kind enough.”

 

He frowns, showing teeth for a second, and his lips look like they could form a vicious sentence, but I hear no sound. He has a quick glance for the sideboard where he knows I keep my liquor, and his eyes dart back to me. I almost sense the automated sarcasm forming in his mind, and as he opens his mouth to speak, that voice again roughly cuts him off :

-”Not in one hour, Malcolm.”

 

Really, it can't be me.

 

_Or could it be?_

 

 

He almost winces, and very carefully steps back towards the sideboard, picking up a glass and pouring a generous dose of single malt in it, his eyes barely leaving mine.

 

He doesn't speak. Violence blurs and fades in his stare, replaced only by a vague distress.

 

Miracles do happen on some nights, they say.

Some part of me refuses to let go of distrust, waiting for that miracle to blow up in my face, but it seems when everything else failed, that implacable voice I've found in me, somewhere between despair and my own blood, actually made it happen. It is absurd, and yet, after all, I've been a fool to believe I could tame that beast with sweet nothings. This time was far worse, this time required much more.

 

And somewhere between despair and my own blood, much more is what I've found.

 

Good. _So be it._

 

To have my Malcolm back, after all, there is nothing I cannot do.

 

 

He walks back to me too reluctantly for my needs, and though I am still struggling with believing my own attitude, it seems that I am indeed beckoning him to be faster, with a snap of my fingers and a stern move of my head.

 

 

He hands over the glass, troubled eyes fixed on me. I take it, and as he withdraws his fingers, my other hand grabs them in a flash. A quick surge of anger can be read on his face as clearly as in a book, but I squeeze his hand harder as a test, and the anger recedes, washed out by turmoil, and what seems to be something close to utter fascination.

 

 

Oh.  
  
It seems I am getting my hand in this.

 

Good.

 

 

I take one large gulp of whisky, chasing away the bitter taste of blood. The pain in my tongue peaks up to torture for a second, then back to a distant, rhythmic throbbing. Malcolm's eyes follow my moves, as if consumed by them. Something good is fighting his way back to his mind, but the sheer struggle of it is painful to witness.

 

I am tempted to switch back to the usual, reassuring him in quiet whispers, praising him while stroking that smooth patch of skin beneath his ear. But I would be a fool to give up the only thing that actually made a difference, until the beast is truly dead and buried. I am sorry, Malcolm. But I need you. I _need_ you back here with me so hard.

 

So, I roughly lead him back in the couch and push him in it until he's sitting down. I take one more sip of my glass, and, my eyes not leaving his, I resolutely pour the rest of the ancient whisky on the folder.

His eyes widen.

Disoriented and exhausted as he can be, he is still a genius, and of course, he knows already. So, all of a sudden, he lets out one single growl, his whole body darting up towards me. I grip his collar and stop him, moved by a strength I never knew I had. I pull him very close to my face, hissing sharp words between my teeth :

 

-”You. Sit back. And watch me.”

 

 

His face contorts in a terrifying mask of fury, but I must look redoubtable myself, mostly because my teeth must be glistening with liquor and blood, for he blinks twice, and obeys. He is tense to the point of breakdown and his mouth articulate my name, without a sound, but heavy with a thousand words.

 

Then, perfectly aware of his eyes following my hand very closely, I grab the folder and throw it in the roaring fire of the hearth, where it burns instantly in a furious, blueish bright flame.

 

 

I hear a violent string of insults being hissed at me, but Malcolm doesn't move a bit.

 

Good.

 

 

_I have, I think, made myself clear._

 

 

 

 

His face remains focused on the fire for a while, twisted between shock and the hurried reviewing and storing of all the names still in his mind. Then, slowly, gradually, as if the power that heap of papers had upon him was burning as well, his eyes go back to that puzzled mix of emotions, exhaustion rapidly showing through.

 

 

 

As I sit next to him and demand his attention with a hand on his cheek, he looks at me with eyes closer to the ones I know, and at last, thank God, speaks my name without violence.

 

-”Julius.”

 

This isn't my dear Malcolm's face yet, but it sure is his voice.

 

 

Good.

 

My fingers lift his chin, and my eyes inspect his face, watching the angry lines of the wolf slowly fading into quieter signs of stunned confusion.

 

-”You've hurt me quite bad, Malcolm, do yo know that?”

 

-”Yes” he breathes, his expression still irresolute.

 

-”And what do you intend to do, exactly, to make amends?”

 

Again, I clearly see his sharp mind calculating very fast. Apologies are obviously too easy. Even talking doesn't seem to be on the agenda yet. His browsing through options lasts for a whole minute, in which I witness his eyes transform into those magnificent pools of frozen water I knew and loved for so long. Oh, Heavens, this desperate, insane move truly is working. The wolf is tamed, fading away, and a very tired, very dizzy Malcolm is crawling his way up to the light.

 

At some point he voices, uneasy :

-”To do as I am told.”

 

-”Good.”

 

My fingers keeping their hold of his chin, I turn his face from side to side to observe it. I wordlessly assess the state of him, my own anger melting at the sight of his utter exhaustion. The usual sweet nothings call to me again with the reassuring voice of old habits, but I am sorry, this won't do.

 

There's this one thing I need to do to wash the wolf away from his very skin.

 

But, first, he is far too tired. His skin is cold as ice, almost shivering. I let go of him and nod towards the food tray, still untouched on the coffee table.

 

-”Eat something.” I say. Gentle, but unyielding.

 

He has a doubtful look for the sandwiches, but grabs one of them anyways, and, bright eyes upon mine, takes the first bite. Heavens be praised. I get up and lay the teapot on an iron shelf, high in the fireplace. It only requires a few minutes until the tea is near boiling again.

And this time, he takes the cup I place in his hand without a word of protest.

 

I patiently wait for him to eat and drink properly at last, ordering him to have at least two sandwiches while putting back some music, choosing the Missa Solemnis this time. Well, tonight's miracle does deserve a song of praise, wouldn't you think.

 

He recognizes the first notes, and has a quick smile for me over his cup of tea. The lines of his brow are still deep, though, and he still looks somewhat distressed. I cannot allow that.

 

I need him undisturbed. I need him peaceful. I need all the violence he had to embrace this whole week long to be cleansed away from him. I need his brilliant mind to be cleared from fury, and, later, tomorrow, perhaps, consider what's to come with a hint of mercy in his heart.

 

Dozens of careers, hearts, minds, and a few lives, maybe, are at stake. Along with my raw need to have my dear Malcolm back.

 

 

 

Well, God forgive, but I will not falter.

 

 

I sit back next to him again, and this time my hand on his cheek is clearly stroking. He sets down his cup on the table and stares at me, unsure. Still too troubled to read me, are you. Fine. I am getting good at making myself _very_ _clear_.

 

I firmly take a hold of his face and kiss him, slow, deep, and insistent. He takes a few seconds to respond, and still doesn't raise his hands to me. My damaged tongue forces his lips apart and plunges into his mouth. He must taste blood, though very slightly, for he stiffens and lets out a panicked, guilty whimper. I reassure him with a gentle stroking of his neck and shoulders, applying pressure to the knotted points I've come to know. After a moment of my carefully organized massaging, he sags forward, laying his head on my shoulder, and at last, grabs my shirt with both hands.

 

-”Julius” he sighs again, and that sweet, hoarse voice is like angel singing to my ears.

 

It _is_ my dear Malcolm's. Welcome back, darling.

 

 

A million voices in my head are screaming for me to go back to what I've always done. But I shall ignore them until my task is complete.

 

My fingers firmly encircle his hands, pushing him away, and keep on pushing him until his back hits the bottom of the couch, pinning him down there despite his alarmed, wild stare. When one of my hands slowly starts to undo the knot if his tie, he understands my intent, and growls again, twisting in my grip, hissing curses and refusals in one last surge of temper, but I won't be subdued.

 

-”Malcolm.” I give him as a quiet sound of warning. “You are not allowed to take initiatives.”

 

 

He freezes, visibly fascinated by my voice. _Good_.

He'll have his fair share of it tonight.

 

 

I let his tie fall on the floor, and gradually let go of his hands to unbutton his shirt. He doesn't take any advantage of it. He lays very still, his hands just where I left them, his raw eyes – definitely more Malcolm by the minute - fixed on my face. I could say he looks panicked, or vulnerable, but I am not fooled that easily. His breath is a little too short, and his pupils a little too dark, to speak only of stress.

 

Gloria, sing the angels of the Missa Solemnis. Gloria, indeed. The moonlit night is done, _here comes the sun._

 

-”You are right.” I breathe, low and soft. “Behave, and you might enjoy it.”

 

 

He wordlessly helps me to discard his jacket and shirt, his delicate fingers starting to work on my own suit. I tut and slap them away. He frowns, jaw tight, but obeys nonetheless, his hands help up in the air in a graceful pause. His eyes seem to devour the sight of me as I strip to the waist down, though, and I hear him panting, his hips already making faint up and down movements under my own.

 

As I dive into his neck to lick a wet path up to his mouth, he welcomes me without a sound of defiance. Good. He doesn't need to know, then, that I _would_ still have taken 'no' for an answer. His kiss is hungry and bold, and at some point in the dance of our tongues, I feel his hand crawl back along my shoulder blades.

 

-”Malcolm.” I hear myself rumble in a dangerous tone. “ **Hands down**.”

 

His fingernails scratch my skin, as he hisses something foul, but as I breathe those words again, right into his ear, licking the lobe along with it, his eyes roll back and his hands fall down on the couch, gripping the ancient leather until his knuckles grow white.

 

-”Good.”

 

 

As a reward, I slide one of my hands down, along his smooth chest and stomach, to give his groin a gentle squeeze. He is hard, much harder than I thought, and welcomes the touch with a low moan. Heavens, I don't think I've ever done anything he enjoyed as much as this. The ardent fire of the hearth brushes his face with gold as a tribute to his elegance. None of my paintings, however precious, ancient or rare, none of them even compares to the glory of his eyes right now. A sight I should have seen more often.

 

The fool I have been.

 

 

The time I have lost.

 

 

_Well, no more of it._

 

 

I brutally shred all remaining clothes away from his docile limbs and mine, then give the soft skin right under his ribs one or two harsh bites. He positively howls, and I hear the leather creak under the grip of his hands. What he cannot do with his fingers, he is trying to do with his legs, wrapping them around me, pushing me down to him.

 

In a flash, I grab a handful of his gorgeous silver hair to yank his head backwards, and force him to look at me in the eyes.

 

-” **Quiet!** ” I groan.

 

He whimpers, glassy eyes dark as night can get, panting hard, and mad with need. But his legs slowly let go of me. Good. I don't think I can see the wolf anymore. But what is begun must be finished.

One merciless hand still gripping his hair, I lean on the side, letting my other hand rummage through the contents of a drawer under the coffee table. This kind of things tend to happen very often here, so I am likely to find...

There.

 

I push the small tube he knows very well between his fingers. My eyes hooked to his, I order briefly :

 

-”Smear it on your hand.”

 

He frowns again, but is far too lost in desire to deny me. Good. He pops the tube open and squeezes it with only one deft hand, and after one minute raises a glistening hand in front of my eyes, a questioning glance in his own.

 

I smile, maybe a little more like him than like myself, and his eyes open wide. I kiss him again, hard, using my grasp on his hair to expose his neck, and sliding up and down the fragile muscles and tendons there with a tongue wet with both of us. He lets out a short series of small cries, and I've heard them before, though only once or twice, in four years. I take a look at his face, and it is him, truly him at last, eyes closed and lips parted, lost in pleasure, willing, calling.

 

The highest of rewards.

 

My other hand guide his soaked fingers to my own groin and I command :

-”Gently.”

 

Pliant, he seems delighted to oblige, stroking me in wet, steady moves while I dedicate myself to my private collection of those cries of his, my thumbs on his hard nipples, my nails on his delicate, soft sides.

 

When I feel I won't be long anymore, and before I loose control, I demand his attention again with a finger in his cheek, and he opens his eyes to look at me. Heavens, those blurred, frozen lakes are a work of art.

-”Stop.” I say.

 

He smiles wickedly. He must have felt how close I am, for he doesn't stop at all, only changes his rhythm, setting fire to my skin. _God, he's good._

 

It takes every speck of willpower I have to do this, but, then again, I may be many things, but I am no coward. My hand on his hair drops to his throat, circling it and tightening in a vicious grip, leaving him with just enough freedom to breathe. I resort to that harsh voice again, hammering my words with barely contained warning:

 

-” **Malcolm**. I said, stop. Now.”

 

 

His next cry ends up wheezing, but his fingers retreat, and he lowers his gaze. Good. He doesn't need to know how close he has been to overpower me. He looks defeated, but I've sensed his cock twitch and stiffen at my hand around his throat, and I can read that language too.

 

Thing is, I could reasonably go back to the usual, now.

_But you know, I don't think I will._

 

What is begun has to be finished. Tonight, I am burning that wolf to a crisp.

 

I lift myself a few inches away from him, focused on controlling my own pleasure, and briefly nod to the side.

 

-” **Turn around** ” I order.

 

 

His mildly docile stare turns to shock. I never asked for that, I know. We used to do it like that, facing each other, because he hates to leave me out of his sight. Because, even though he – unexpectedly - has never asked to be on top, he still very much wants to watch over me. Assess, react and control, reading my face as a gauge for his own moves, conducting me, _spinning_ me, even there, even then.

Also, maybe, because this is how his complex mind is built, he has to keep an eye on me, to satisfy a small part of him that refuses to trust anyone but himself.

Even there, even then.

 

Well, tonight he'll have to learn to.

 

 

His wide eyes lost in disbelief and sheer panic, he lays here petrified, and I give him twelve seconds to decide, before I grab his arm and forcefully lift him and turn him around until he's laying on his stomach, his face against the rugged, ancient leather. I never thought I had that strength in me. I never thought he'd be so light. He yelps in pain and surprise, all notion of rebellion gone from his frozen eyes.

 

-”Julius!” he calls, voice anguished, broken, and Heavens, if this is not begging, I don't know what it is.

 

I lay down upon his back, making him feel the weight of me, the burn of my heated skin. Trapped and panicked, he squirms and turns his head to look at me, but my hand on the back of his neck is very clear about me not allowing any of that.

 

His breath cut short, his fingers trembling, he is forced to look into the void between us and the fireplace, and only sense of me what he can hear, and feel.

 

Beethoven's Credo roars in powerful notes, vibrant as the colours of fire on his skin, and indeed, Malcolm, this is all about Credo, you know.

 

Do you believe, Malcolm?

 

I try hard to control my voice, to sound as gentle as I can, through the thick white mist of my own arousal. Because my lubed cock is right there, perfectly aligned, sliding between his firm buttocks as his squirming increase, and this is driving me mad.

 

-”Do you trust me, Malcolm?” I breathe in his ear.

 

His twisting stops as he pauses, wild eyes staring into the fire, and keeps quiet for a moment, his short breaths ending in low, tortured wheezes. He needs more of my voice, I know, and though one of my hands is still ordering his frail neck to stay put, my other hand gently comes to stroke his shoulder and arm, spreading warmth, talking wordlessly about years of adoration.

 

-”Do you know I'd rather die than to hurt you, my dear Malcolm?”

 

-”Yes” he exhales with very limited hesitation.

 

-”Do you think my intent, right now, is to hurt you?”

 

A pause, four seconds at most. I softly plant a kiss in the crook of his neck.

-”No.” He finally gasps.

 

-”Good. You are right. I will ask again, then. Do you trust me?”

 

 

I let my hand slide along his slender arm until it reaches his own, and wait there. As the Credo sighs about Remission of all sins, he slowly entwines our fingers and I feel more than I see his tense shoulder finally relax.

 

-”Yes”. He lets out.

 

 

Heavens. I am not sure he even said that once to anyone in his life. I measure, now, how much I've just asked from him. How much he just gave me. How much he loves me, dear Malcolm, dear damaged soul.

 

 

_Et vitam venturi saeculi._

 

 

There couldn't be more fitting hymn to my victory.

 

-”Good. Behave, then.”

 

I grab a velvet cushion to lift his hips up a bit, taking time to give him a reassuring stroke along his inner thighs, circling around his cock without touching it. There will be time for that. Right now, I reach for the tube again, and pour the rest of its contents on my own fingers. My other hand remains, merciless, on the back of his neck, for a little longer.

 

I push two fingers in him, carefully, and he doesn't even flinch. He lips part slightly, though he doesn't make a sound. I lay back upon him, crushing him against the leather, devouring his cheek and neck and shoulder in hungry kisses, while my fingers slowly work him open.

He does try to look at me a few times, but not as hard as I thought he would. After a while, he calms down, his glassy stare stays fixed on the fire, the reflection of the flames upon the frozen lakes of his eyes the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. I crook my fingers the right way and they blur, not closing, not yet, his broken voice crying out twice. I decide I like those cries also. They are missing in my collection, and I do want more of those.

 

I add one third finger and push deeper. I sense his shudder from my groin to my chest and the scream he gives me is of inestimable value. I settle for a slow rhythm, and his pliant hips very soon lift up and down to meet me, the friction it gives him against the velvet good enough to have him cry out in higher notes, which he almost never does.

 

It is time.

 

I let go of his neck. He could turn and look at me.

He doesn't.

 

His dazed eyes remain on the fire.

 

_Hosanna in excelsis._

 

 

 

I lift him up a bit, until he's resting on his elbows, and slide an arm around his shoulders, my hand lingering on his throat, as a threat, as a warning. He moans, but doesn't resist me. My other hand forces his hips up. Obedient, he lets me move him. I take time to let my fingers graze along this glorious pale skin, masterpiece of them all, the most precious I'll ver possess.

 

My own pleasure is almost shredding my mind into bits, but I find enough composure to whisper in his ear again, sucking on the delicate flesh there :

 

-”Do you want this, Malcolm?”

 

-”Julius!”

 

A hint of irritation, maybe. My fingers around his throat give a short, meaningful squeeze.

 

-” **Answer me, Malcolm**. Do you want it?”

 

-”Yes.”

 

-”Will you obey me?”

 

-” _Yes_. Julius, _please,_ ** _ah!_** ”

 

I enter him in one swift move, his begging not even finished, and clearly show him I have no intention of making it last. I keep pounding him, and he arches his back, his head thrown backwards, throat offered, eyes closed. Crying out, again and again, chaotic words and, mostly, my name. His thin frame endures my restless assault, and though I do try to keep on talking in his ear, I am soon moaning senseless words too.

 

I won't be long. My hand slides to his cock, wet and throbbing, and I make sure I won't go first. I give him four rough, deep strokes, and he looses all control. Eyes squeezed shut, panting and shouting, his entire body conquered and surrendered to mine. Everything. He has given up everything. I could crush him, hurt him and abandon him there, he would let me.

Control is mine. **He is _mine_.**

 

-”Come for me, Malcolm. Come now, scream my name. Do it.”

 

It takes three more strokes and my cock filling him up once more, and he grabs the armrest of the couch for support, doing, for once, just as he's ben told.

 

I keep on moving, devouring his cries and shivers, and the burning fluid in my hand, until I sense his pleasure complete, and I can let go of mine. I bite his shoulder to muffle my own cries, because, you see, they're only amateur art.

 

I fear I don't remember much of the rest, between then and the moment I find myself laying upon my back on that couch, Malcolm spread upon me like a cat, a bit curled up, his head on my shoulder.

 

But the Agnus Dei has just begun, so it can't be long.

 

I give him a light nudge to have him look at me. He doesn't smile, but he doesn't need to. His eyes do the trick perfectly. He doesn't talk, but he doesn't need to. His lazy kiss did the job quite well.

He's warm, and limp, and there is not one line of worry left on his face. My dear Malcolm, peaceful. At last. Somewhere as the moonlit night dies, roaring fires devour the last bone of the Wolf to nothing.

If I make him drink some more tea, he'll let me serve him. If I offer him a biscuit; or even two, he'll let me feed him. If I gently suggest we get upstairs for a bath, and sleep the rest of the week away, he'll let me guide him.

 

 

Lamb of God, take away the sins of this world.

_I think I can go back to the usual, now._

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There you go !  
> I told you Julius was going to find a way.  
> Turned out MUCH SMUTTIER than I thought, though. Well, I did put the warnings on. 
> 
> I very strongly suggest you listen to the real Beethoven's Missa Solemnis while reading it again, when you have time someday.  
> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8Fd_siX9dw4
> 
> It bring the thing to another level. 
> 
>  
> 
> Of course, as always, I will offer an epilogue, rather on the fluffy side, because  
> A - I always do. Fluff is good after violence and rough sex.  
> B - There actually was a plot, besides Julius getting Malcolm to calm the fuck down, here. Will take care of that. Stay tuned! 
> 
>  
> 
> You know I never let you wait for too long between updates. I'm not that kind of guy.


	4. Epilogue : Victory march.

 

 

I woke up to one of the most delightful sights my strange life has let me witness.

  
Malcolm Tucker sleeping.

 

  
It is, of course, a beautiful thing. His face, relaxed for once, looks ten years younger, and his fingers on the sheets, just laid there devoid of grip or strength, are utterly compelling.

It also means a lot.

  
It means he has sufficiently let go of whatever is always troubling him to close his eyes next to me and drift off. It means that he will wake up later, a smile on his face, and perhaps won't refuse and shun everything that is offered, proposed or suggested to him. Sometimes, to me, it means the greatest of achievements. Pretty much like it did this morning.

Though the need to do so was stronger than ever, didn't dare to touch that face, not even to graze that cheek with a finger, fearing I'd wake him up before he has slept all he needed to. And Lord, he did need a lot.

I got up silently and, after a quick change, made my escape to the kitchens. I had a solid breakfast waiting for us, faithful to the wisdom of giving him as much food as I could while the effects of yesterday's bold move of mine would last.

  
As he still wasn't to be seen after that, I settled for the gardens. This late sunday morning was quite cold for the season, but the dimmed orange sunlight honouring my trees, today, was merciful.

It is the Old City House and those are small gardens indeed, but still, they remain the largest in that part of London. My family may despise the size of them compared to our countryside estates, but this acre and a half of neatly trimmed oaks, pines, and beeches are as precious to me as to David, my butler. The old man has a passion for them that is quite obvious.

He works in the gardens almost everyday, may the sun burn or the frost bite, and my help is barely needed. But as my father had better things to do, David very much raised me as his son, and it hurts me to see his fabulous strength slowly fading with old age. He'll soon need help with more than just the heavy lifting. I will have him name a successor, whenever he'll be ready. As for now, a bit if exercise, as moving these logs of wood, is good for my own office-dweller health.

 

I've been working for one jolly hour when a small laugh behind my back brings summertime in the gardens. I painfully straighten my back and look behind.

  
Malcolm is standing there, gorgeous with renewed energy and daytime lighting, wearing what little clothing he accepted to leave here, that thick beige zipped sweater and those dark grey denims I have a weakness for.

  
-"You realize I had time to take pictures that could pay my fucking retirement in Spain, right?” he snickers joyfully. “Julius the Lumberjack. They'll fucking love it back at the office. I might have some effects added in the background, like canadian mountains, draft horses and thick hairy men in plaid shirts rubbing their dicks together.”

  
He is waving his delicate hands in fake inspired theatrics, as if to help me picturing the whole idea.

 

-"I am perfectly aware of your devilish mind, dear Malcolm." I sigh as I finish my work. "Though you are very unlikely to ever retire, least of all in Spain."

 

-"Maybe." He concedes, looking around, still feigning deep thought. "How much for your old hut, _Lumberjulius_? If I sell the pictures to the Mail I may buy the fucking place. I'll keep you as my room lackey or something. That fucking ridiculous 30's tux you wear on Number Ten parties will do as livery.”

 

Though I know he'd like me to retort some more and play with him that game of wits he's so fond of, I simply roll eyes and get a hold of his face to kiss him. He showered and shaved, his fresh lips like water in scorching sun.

  
His responding as always takes some time to come, and I could have said it was quite lukewarm, until I noticed his fingers grabbing the sleeve of my suede jacket, and that light in his inhuman ice blue eyes I could spend the rest of my days watching. When I pull apart, he tells nothing more, and with that, he tells everything.

  
I pull him inside the house with me, and to my utter delight, the amount of eggs and cereal he actually accepts is exceptional, compared to his usual standards. This is like a Victory march to my ears, _allegetto_. I find my own senseless joy at seeing him simply accept my care mortifying, but I suppose I cannot fight the way I am. I treat everything that is dear to me the same way, if I think about it.

 

My beloved, damaged Machiavelli of a lover or course.

My household, David, Mathilda, and Liam my young cook.

 

The house itself, by the way. The oaks and the beeches. My paintings, my books, everything.

 

Laying down my time, my money and my heart into people's morning cereal bowl is a dreadful habit of mine.

 

 

Breakfast in the Conservatory has always been a faithful ally to my purposes. He barely checks his Blackberry twice while eating, and seems to enjoy my idle talk about the upcoming transformations in the gardens, as spring arrives. I often think he does love the old city house as much as I do.

No matter how angry, troubled or tired, he never, not once has been rude to my household. Mathilda positively adores him, and Malcolm did help immensely to find a proper job for David's son. He's been a ray of brand new light through these old 17th century windows.

 

  
Sometimes, in daydreams I'd rather die than speak of, he sells his city centre apartment and comes to live here with us.

  
With me.

 

But wisdom has kept my mouth shut.

 

 

As it should do more often, I guess.

 

For as I dare to break the silence, mindlessly surfing on the wave of this perfect breakfast, and mutter something about his intent for tomorrow at the office, he stiffens, a terrifying spark of yesterday morning's anger springing back to life in his eyes.

 

-”Tomorrow what?” he growls. “Tomorrow I get back to the fucking office and have bollocks nailed upon whiteboards as fucking morning exercise, why?”

 

Eyes down into my cup of tea, I silently summon an escape plan, retreating troops and lowering the flag. Fine, fine, last night may have won me back the Malcolm I know, but the Malcolm I know is still a very unstable high-voltage killing machine. How could I forget. Fine.

 

I need a bomb defusing strategy. Something quiet, something special. _Come on, Julius_ , so much is at stake this time. So many names, I am sure, still stored in his brilliant, merciless mind.

The appropriate moment to talk about his mercy for these people won't just happen. I have to create it.

 

Oh.

 

I could take him _there_.

 

_Yes, that could work._

 

 

-”There's something I've always wanted to show you, if you feel like it this afternoon”.

 

He frowns, tilting his head on the side to ask for more. I turn to him and smile, half of it because I have a plan, half of it because I can't help myself, for there is sunlight in his hair, and he is positively magnificent.

 

-”You will enjoy it.” I promise gently. “Trust me.”

 

 

He inspects my face with narrowed eyes for a while, and finally goes back to his eggs, shrugging. I thought he'd leave it at that, but after a few seconds he adds in a slow, careful voice :

 

-”I do trust you. I told you.”

 

Sunlight enters my worried heart and I stretch out to kiss his temple. His soft smile gloriously finishes the first movement of my Victory march.

 

 

I don't call a cab. I said quiet and special, and so it shall be. I tell him to follow me to the garage, and painfully open the ancient wooden doors. Resting there under a thick canvas sheet is my father's silver-grey 1960 MGA 1600. Malcolm has never been a man to turn his head for cars, but if I'm not mistaken, this one is good enough.

 

I lift the canvas sheet and there she shines. His eyes widen, and I catch the amazed curse he mutters before he summons a mask of sarcasm over it.

 

-”Where are we going to in that thing? BBC one Antiques Roadshow?” he sneers, but his voice isn't half as acid as it should.

 

-”The question is not where, Malcolm. The question is : are you willing to go?”

 

He seems to ponder for a while, his eyes jumping from me to the car and back. Then, his smile barely hidden by a wave of his hand, he gracefully sits on the passenger seat.

I have a freezing second of doubt as I turn the key. David loves that car, and has her always filled up and ready, but she hardly ever gets out.

 

But of course, she starts rumbling instantly like the old queen she is. Malcolm, curious eyes on the vintage dashboard, definitely gave up hiding his smile.

 

_Oh, thank God._

 

 

My driving may be unworthy of her, but that car my father deemed “useless” flawlessly slides through city streets, heads and fingers pointing at her, and Malcolm, as the highest of tributes, asks quite a handful of questions about her origins, history and specifics.

 

Victory march, second movement. _Allegro._

 

 

It takes a while, but he doesn't seem to mind.

As I park the car in a private spot behind the huge, ancient building, he discretely looks around, knowing his question about where we could be wouldn't be answered, and unable to find the answer by himself.

 

I precede him to a plain, metallic back door under a flight of delicately carved stone stairs. I rummage through my keys, trying to remember that one I barely use. He silently follows, and I start speaking, almost as a reward for his patience :

-”This used to be a hospital, back in the 16th century. It's full-blown Renaissance, as you may notice in the mannerism of the semi-circular arches of the paired windows. The front façade on the other side, truly, is a masterpiece, but we will see it later. What I'd like to show you, dear Malcolm, is inside.

 

I unlock the heavy door, and step inside. I easily find my way into a place that never changes, through years may pass and thousands of different, young feet keep on passing through these stairs in a restless dance. The creaking oak halls and corridors welcome us in heavy sunday silence, and we are being gently watched by ancient paintings, along with very recent, messy portraits, all pinned to the walls in glory and failure alike.

 

The smell, above all, is typical. It's paint, charcoal and turpentine oil, it's wet plaster, dry paper and ten generations of wood. He's beginning to understand, of course, I see that in his eyes, alight with mirth, and the slight biting of his thumb.

 

-”It's an art school” he whispers. “It's a fucking huge posh-class art school”.

 

-”You are only half right” I correct as I lead him to the second floor, classic drawing section, where the smell of paper and charcoal is the strongest. “This is indeed an art school, but definitely not meant for upper-class. London has plenty of private art schools for the wealthy and well-born. This one is open to anyone. Actually, it's almost entirely free of charge.”

 

I push one last door for him, and he gazes at the _pièce de résistance_. A wide, radiant hall, walls covered in sketches, high carved plaster ceiling supported by thin pillars of stone. Scattered through the place, easels and stools, wooden bases presenting copies of antique statues, or vases.

Or strangely melted plastic bottles. _Modern art, no doubt_.

 

I sense he has a lot more questions for me, but the calling of the workshop is too strong. He doesn't say a word, letting his bright eyes wander everywhere, and sometimes, grazing a statue or a paper sheet with his delicate fingertips.

 

Victory mach, third movement, _Vivace_.

 

 

I don't think he knew I saw him pull out a mechanical pen and a notepad once or twice, on late evenings at the House, and briefly sketch one painting detail or the other, his main fascination being for my Vermeer, as he is a man of excellent taste.

I don't think he knew I saw how far his attraction for the fine arts truly goes. How deep he hides an amazing gift for classic drawing.

 

Well, I suppose he knows, now.

 

I let him look around, too scared to spoil the miracle by any interference. He walks closer to one of the easels, standing in a circle around an exquisite statue of a lady's upper body, her shoulders turned in the most elegant pose, directing the watcher on her long, silken neck. The work pinned upon the easel, though, is a disaster. The handful of traits there, though showing an obvious will to reproduce it, is as far as the model as could be. I see Malcolm wince, and look around.

He gently grabs a soft eraser, and in five strokes has the paper cleaned.

 

What happens right after has no words worthy of describing. But I can tell you he picked up a thin charcoal, and scanned the statue for a whole minute. I would gladly die rather than interrupt, devouring the sight in raw reverence.

 

Who could guess. Who could guess in a thousand years, in a thousand chances.

_Who in the world really knows Malcolm Tucker._

 

Who would believe me, if I told of all those evenings, listening to Verdi or Borodin, laying out art books and magazines in front of him, and letting his genius mind feed to repletion until morning light. Who would be able to understand how close he came to all the great minds of history. Beethoven. Van Eyck. Da Vinci.

 

How the spinning is only one side, one dark, bloodstained side of him.

 

No one, I fear.

 

We're alone, here, Malcolm and I, in that ancient hall, his trust in me so blind, so strong, he lets me witness this miracle without a glance.

I very much fear I could cry, clenching my fists to stop me from touching him.

 

 

Waiting does bring good fortune, because when he's done, he steps back, right into me.

My hands dart up on his arms, and he lets me hold him. He wordlessly judges his work, and to explain how perfect it is, I can tell you, by example, that nothing will stop me from taking that sheet of paper to the House with me and have it framed in the most delicate cherry wood I can find.

 

 

 

I silently kiss his neck, and he lets me, though he doesn't turn his head.

He keeps on looking at his drawing, and gently asks in unhurried tones:

 

-”You collect art, but you don't do art. Why do you have the key to an art school ?”

 

My lips still hovering above the delicate skin between his neck and jaw, I whisper :

-”I own the place.”

 

He frowns, huffing a sharp laugh, but still doesn't turn to me.

-”What kind of investment is a school that is free of charge? Doesn't make a penny.”

 

-”It is not investment. It is funding. I bought the building fifteen years ago as it was crumbling to pieces, and had it refurbished from basement to roof. Then, I hired teachers and bought furnitures. Opened the school for anyone of any age and origin for a few pounds and a motive. Doesn't make a penny, indeed. It actually costs me half a million a year.”

 

 _Now_ , he turns to me.

Slowly, his eyes meeting mine in deep calculations. A dozen different emotions flash in his stare again, but, unexpectedly, surprise is not among them. I sigh briefly. Such hard work. I thought I would at least earn a gasp.

 

But, _oh_.

 

It is his hand on my cheek, in the sweetest of caresses, and between the gorgeous lines of his face I think I can read it, at last. At last.

 

He knew. He always knew. That dreadful habit of mine. Caring.

He knew, and this is why. I see it clearly now, this is why.

 

Why he finally let me take him home.

 

_Four years ago._

 

His lips gently kiss my own, taking their time, leaving my mind blank and burning.

 

-”Now you can ask me” he breathes against my mouth.

 

-”Ask you what?” I stutter, my hands gripping his arms for balance.

 

-”Not to crush all these cunts to death tomorrow morning. Just the twats who started it.”

 

**_Oh, Malcolm._ **

 

Brilliant, _diabolical_ Malcolm.

Earth splits in half beneath my feet, and I would be falling to my own demise, if my fingers didn't grip his sleeves with blind despair.

 

-”How long have you known?” I almost whine.

 

-”Yesterday night, when you threw the whole fucking folder in the fireplace.”

 

-”And you let me do those things to you and...?”

 

-”Yes.”

 

-”Malcolm, **why?** ”

 

 

He smiles, his intricate thoughts out of my reach. His fingers capture one of my hands and he lifts it to his lips. He lowers his head and kisses my knuckles, one by one. I hear angels sing again, somewhere beyond the thick stone walls. Sometimes I just struggle with the fact that he thinks I deserve him.

 

-”I need that rage to do this filthy, impossible job, Julius. I need dominance, absolute control.”

 

He doesn't look up, and, again, I am wise enough to keep quiet. Something's strange, though I can't put my finger on it.

 

-”But absolute control is going to squeeze me dry until I drop dead if I don't let you take it all away from me, sometimes.” he breathes against my hand.

 

 

Something's strange.  
  
Oh, I know. _He didn't swear._

 

 

 

 

 

-”I'll do it again, if you need it.” I promise. “I'll do it as often as it takes. My dear Malcolm, you know how I love you.”

 

He doesn't answer. Never does, never will. Never needs to. He smiles once more, lets go of my hand and walks to the door.

 

-”I'm fucking hungry. You bought half of London, don't you own a snack bar around here?”

 

 

 

I follow him outside, with surprisingly little care about the tears I feel on the corner of my eyes, but not without a small detour to grab that priceless sheet of paper.

 

I am not a man to walk away from masterpieces.

 

 

 

  
  
Victory march. _Finale._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here it ends. With the fluff I promised. 
> 
> I had hella fun sharing that with you all, guys. You get me moving. Bless you all !


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